All I Want for Christmas Is You
by gazebows
Summary: She spent four years pretending she was okay. She wasted half her life distorting the truths. Now she’s exhausted from bottling everything in. On one Christmas Eve, someone special shows up. And her walls come crashing down.


Disclaimer – I own the main character, but that's it.

A/N – Just a one-shot I did for the Spawns of the Mediators competition at MCBC. I know it's a bit, uh, LONG, but please read and review?

XXX

What awoke me on the morning of Christmas Eve wasn't the delicious aroma of my mother's gingerbread cookies. It wasn't the sweet melodies that she was always playing on the recorder while dancing around the living room, a smiling face so serene and blissful that it used to hurt to look at her. It wasn't the loud jeers and shouts coming from the neighborhood boys, pouncing and trouncing each other with snowballs and such. And of course, it wasn't the placid laughs that my aunts and uncles often supported while sitting on the tall stools in the kitchen, having those sips of tea while the world around them went by, snowdrop after snowdrop, twinkling light after twinkling light, Santa after Santa, wish after wish.

On that particularly morning, what aroused me from my deep slumber had nothing to do with the usual elements and highlights of a typical Christmas Eve sunrise. After all, my mother hadn't baked anything of any variety in such a long time; half the years since I've been alive, in fact. And also in that amount of time, she'd never – read, _never_ – danced, or sung, or played any of the music she used to when Father was alive. Ever since the neighborhood park was built (thankfully on the whole other side of the subdivision), the kids I used to hang out with had been there day and night. And my relatives? Mom might want me to believe they're too busy now with their lives to see us, but I can see the plain obvious when it's deeply rooted in my brain: she was the one who ostracized them all.

Biting my lip, and wanting to stop another flood of memories of the past before it could fully begin, I threw off the covers and clambered off my bed. Not bothering with my slippers, I quietly ran to my window.

_There it is!_ I rejoiced silently, a smile involuntarily breaking across my face. _It wasn't just a dream again… I didn't hear the gentle, almost nonexistent flapping of the wings in dreamland… _

I giggled, propping my elbows on the windowsill and resting my head on my right hand, just looking at it. The butterfly outside my window.

A butterfly, in December. In the winter. It's unheard of, isn't it? They can't survive in such harsh weather…

Wanting a better look at it, I pressed my face completely against the cold window. It stared back at me while grasping the ledge to balance itself. The tall oak tree next to it stood erect.

I twirled a lock of my dull brown hair around my fingers, thinking. It could've just emerged from a cocoon minutes before. If so, it didn't have that high chance of survival in such bitter weather.

I took one last look at its gold wings with black and gray flecks and dashed out of the room, skipping down the stairs, not stopping until I was at the front door.

As my hand closed around the knob, my mother called from the kitchen.

"Katrina? Is that you? Did you just get up?"

Darn. Of all days when my mom decides to take an interest in my activities…

"Yes, Mom," I called back patiently, as if I didn't have an limited amount of time I had to get out there and check the wing of Butter to see if it's wet.

"I'm just going outside for a few minutes," I continued before she could say something else, or worse yet, wander into the parlor and see me in my PJs. "I saw Mrs. Martin outside and I want to wish her a merry Christmas."

My mother, of course, probably didn't even realize it was a day too early for Christmas greetings. But nonetheless, she called back, already sounding as if drifting back into her own world; "Okay, but don't forget to put on your parka, it's freezing outside…"

I rolled my eyes, knowing for a fact she wouldn't know if it were actually 100 degrees and the sun was melting everything, including Christmas. But I couldn't help the tight squeeze of my heart that accompanied my feeling of resentment toward her. She was my mother.

_Forget it. _She _was the one who was supposed to care._

In a flash, the door was open and I was outside, calling back to my mom, "I'm going over to Evelyn's later!" Then I was off, running toward the tree, and where I thought Butter would be.

_God, Kitty, you are so out of shape,_ I thought as I stopped and huffed and puffed under my bedroom window. And in that instant, while I was regaining my breath, the butterfly just _had _to choose then to flutter its golden wings and glide down. And away.

It was heading for the stop sign, which would sooner or later lead it either out of the neighborhood or toward the park, where the sadistic spawns of devils are sure to torture it in all ways possible.

So I did the only thing logical. I ran after it.

"Here, Butter! Don't run away!" I called as I chased, ignoring the fact my feet were becoming numbly frozen (stupidly, I wasn't wearing any socks or shoes), and that my ears – or rather, my whole face, not to mention body – would soon become two darling little roses standing out on the two sides of my head.

Just as I was regretting only running out of the house wearing my flimsy nightgown, Butter flew across the street, in the direction of the yells from Samson Parker, bully extraordinaire, and his cronies from the playground.

It was stupid, the fear that gripped my heart then. Really, what kind of person is afraid for a tiny butterfly that she'd just met minutes before? A butterfly that's SURE to die soon?

But some things are better left unexplained. I sped up, almost tripping over a tree branch. My eyes trained on that speck of gold, my feet left the snow and started across the road.

The whooshing of the wind disappeared. All thoughts of Samson ripping apart Butter's wings evaporated. In the next second, all that I was aware of was the sudden, earsplitting squeal of tires, and a truck coming, heading straight for me, on my left…

When I was little, I had overheard my mom saying that it's easier to face death if you close your eyes. To shut yourself away from it, blinding and deafening yourself from the imminent demise.

I shut my eyes and let myself fall.

In the back of my consciousness, I heard the driver of the vehicle curse vehemently as his tires let out an even more bloodcurdling squeal. I saw him attempt to swerve his car, first to his left, then forward as he tried to prevent hitting the curb. And in that split moment, he zoomed on as I plummeted to the ground.

"_Nombre de dios,_" I heard a voice breathe, after what felt like hours of a never ending silence. "Katrina? Katrina!"

Hmm, sleep… warmth… I felt my body being pressed against something, a wool-like material that transmitted all heat possible, making my face flush. Only seconds – or was it minutes? – ago, I was shivering and moments away from frostbite. But now, seemingly in a stranger's arms, it was as if I were back in my room with the heater cranked up to two hundred.

I opened my eyes. Slowly, one eyelash at a time… then my orbs were absorbing a whole new world of white.

I let my gaze travel more and more near, until I found two inky wells staring back at me.

"Eek!" I cried, jumping out of his embrace. A mere stranger! Someone I had never seen before, was holding me!

"Who are you?" I squeaked, backing away. Yeah, bad idea. My heel tripped over the sidewalk ledge and at the last second possible, I steadied myself, holding out a hand to stop the person from coming towards me.

His eyes were wide with shock and relief.

"_Dios_, your whole life flashed before my eyes!" The strange man shouted in agony, looking up at the sky.

I blinked. That, somehow, was definitely not the response I had expected. I guess, I don't know, I thought he was going to apologize for scaring the wits out of me. Oh, but then I would lamely realize he had been trying to help a poor and helpless girl (me) and I would apologize to _him_, embarrassed I had overreacted.

Except… he was giving the sign of caring way more about me than an outsider should.

"Um, I'm sorry, but shouldn't it be the other way around?" I said carefully, sizing him up. A tall and muscular frame. Looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. The weird thing, though? His clothes. Maybe he worked for a Regency masquerade. "I was the one who almost… died."

A gasp almost made its way to his lips before he caught himself in time and smiled shakily down at me. "Are you okay, though?"

He looked to be harmless enough. I found myself timidly making my way back to him.

"I'm fine," I said reluctantly, staring up at him.

"That's good." Relief lathered every decibel of his voice. He leaned down, closer to me, and I could distinctly feel his body warmth again.

But for some reason, I wasn't scared. I didn't turn on my heel and run away from a stranger, like I had always been taught to.

"Are you cold?" He asked, taking in my attire and looking pained. "You must be freezing. Here." And before I could stop him, he handed me a button down parka that seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

"I'm Hector," he said before I, wide-gazed, could ask any questions. "You are Katrina."

I donned the coat and eyed him disbelievingly, but somehow, I wasn't really worried. "How'd you know?"

Hector smiled kindly. "I know a lot of things, Kitty. This may be asking a lot, but you have to trust me."

I started. He also knew my nickname? The name my father had coined me when my mother had insisted that Katrina was more proper and sophisticated…?

I regarded him quizzically. "Trust you? With what?"

Hector smiled again and stood up. "I would like to take you somewhere."

There was no hesitation on my part. "I would like to go," I said automatically. "I told my mom I would be at an elderly neighbor's house, and then I was supposed to head over to my friend Evelyn's to spend the day."

I wasn't really sure what exactly was it about the stranger. But all I was aware of was, from the mere minutes I had spent with him, he gave me something no one else seemed to be able to. I felt something with him, a connection, that I hadn't felt with anyone in a long time, especially not my mother.

Then there was that curiosity plowing its way up and up until it was going to burst my inseams.

"Be right back," I said breathily, clomping back toward my house. There, I didn't have to worry about my mom hearing me at all, but nonetheless, I _very_ quietly opened the front door and tiptoed upstairs, where I shrugged out of the bulky parka and changed into something cozy and presentable. Then I extracted my hat and faux fur coat from the hall closet and crept back out again, meeting Hector by my mailbox. For some reason, he was looking at all the houses, and trees, and the blinding white snow, and just anywhere that was not the direction I had just emerged from.

I tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to spin around abruptly. He gave a quick laugh and then looked away, but not before I saw the unmistakable ache in his eyes.

"Ready?" He said lightly, masking all his emotions in a perfectly blank expression. He held out his hand to me, which I took without pause. We started walking down the street.

"Where are we going?" I said after awhile, breaking the silence. A silence that, I have to admit, defied the alleged awkwardness of most silences. With Hector, I was at ease, no questions asked. I didn't know, really, why I was so comfortable with this certain stranger. I guess it's one of those clichéd moments, or clichéd people, that you're supposed to feel relaxed around, no matter how oppressing the silence _should be_ or how on edge you're _supposed to be_.

"Where do you want to go?" Hector said kindly.

I blinked, looked around, and realized we were already at the entrance of the subdivision. In front of us, and to the left and right, traffic roamed the busy streets of California.

"I…" I faltered. Where did I want to go, really? The mall, so I could gaze upon all the girls and boys with their loving families, having a blast while taking pictures with Santa and his entourage? Aunt Cee Cee's house, because I missed her tinkling laugh, how she always vouched for me, and the fact she stuck by me after my father died and my mom threw herself into work? But even at eight, I knew I would be disrupting her fest with Uncle Adam and their kids.

I wasn't going to be a bother to one of the few who realized what I truly needed after my father passed away.

"Yes?"

"Um…" I fumbled with the buttons on my coat. Then I took a deep breath, because I knew there was one place I wanted to go to.

"The park. I want to go the park."

Hector gaze me a surprised, and equally uncertain look. "The park? Are you sure, _querida_?"

Right. It's covered completely in snow and everyone else would either be at home or doing last-minute shopping, or taking their famous holiday portraits. But I didn't care. An empty park is all I needed.

"Yes," I said softly, looking up at him. "Please take me there."

Hector shrugged and took my hand in his and we started our journey on the sidewalk. I let the silence settle itself over us again. An air of disquiet emanated from him, but I convinced myself it was merely because of his confusion of a little girl like me not wanting to go to, say, the amusement park or the mall or someplace else equally brimming with the atmosphere of adolescence.

The Sentinel Park wasn't far from my neighborhood. As we passed block after block, soon it came into view. I walked in without hesitation, pulling a reluctant Hector along with me.

I paid no heed to the pretty, picket-fence that captivated the entrance, or the expanse of what would normally be the grass green lawn. Instead, I briskly made my way past the picnic tables, the tennis courts, the soccer field, the little rocky trail…

Finally, as my adrenaline reached its absolute climax, we reached it. The gazebo.

In the faint golden rays of the sunlight mixed with the pure whiteness of the ashen snow, the gazebo, sitting high on its pilings and surrounded by the tips of tall grass crushed down by the weight of the flurry snow, seemed like its own little solitary island.

I made my way up the steps and stood leaning against a railing, gazing out at all the trees with their bare branches.

I heard Hector behind me. He didn't say a word, didn't even touch me. But I felt it anyway; that small intake of breath as his eyes roamed the majestic roof to the architectural structure of the pilings and the configuration.

The gazebo was beautiful, even when it had nothing to show for it.

Eyes closed, I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my lips as I willed the memories to do their job and wash over every fiber of my being.

Nothing about the park, the gazebo, or the views of everything surrounding it was easy to forget. In the summer, evergreen and oak trees provided the shade not only for lounging couples having a nice romantic picnic, but more importantly, for the rest of the population wanting a view of the grandiose spread of the leaves and branches, sprawling out like an umbrella of monochromed rainbows.

It was also during the summertime that my dad and I used to come here the most. Sometimes, he would simply watch over me and a couple of friends as we sprinkled across the lawn, laughing and giggling and doing what young girls tend to do for fun in the sun. Other times, he would attempt to teach me sports like football or soccer, even though for some reason he wasn't so sure on the rules and techniques himself. And of course, other times we would find ourselves up in that gazebo, looking down at all the other families having a blast down there: mothers smiling as they observed their kids, flying kites or acting out scenes and schemes; old grandfathers spreading out their daily newspapers, and the occasional grandson who intentionally but lovingly arouse them in their deep slumber; dogs wandering around, sniffing at the grass, dirt, tree trunks, everything; the birds' tweeting, and pruning, and the look they would send straight at us just before stretching open their wings and taking flight.

Tears sprang to my eyes as another flashback overwhelmed me.

My father was a good man, did you know? He greeted everyone with a smile; he never passed by a hollow-faced and dire-looking panhandler on a street without emptying half the contents of his wallet; he was gentle and considerate to my mother, me, his friends, our cat before it had the wild idea to claw open our front door and roam the streets at midnight, eventually resulting in its sad, horrid demise.

The next day, while I had still been in tears and soggy t-shirts filled with snot and saliva, Daddy took me to the park. Two reasons: to calm me down, and to lead me away from everything in the house that reminded me of Kitty Katty Number Two (but we just called him Kiki).

"Why – _hic_ – did he – _hic_ – have to run away – _hic_ – Daddy?" A four-year-old me had said through blurry eyes and a tear-stained vision, slamming my bony butt down on a slim bench that ran along the gazebo's perimeter. "We – _hic_ – gave him everything – _hic _– that he could have possibly – _hic _– wanted. He was my – _hic _– _baby_!"

"Shh, _querida_, it's all right," He cradled me in his big, strong arms and I buried my face into his expensive shirt, sobbing my eyes out for what could've possibly been the fiftieth time that day.

"Did he not like us enough, Daddy? Did he – _hic_ – think that another family could have given him more love? Provided him with more treats? Played – _hic_ – with him more?"

"That would be impossible, Kitty," Daddy murmured in reply, drawing me closer to him and hugging me as fierce as humanly possible while I clawed my way deeper and deeper into his arms, wanting an oasis, a retreat, a haven, a refuge, simply a sanctuary to fade myself into while I contemplated all that I had done wrong, all that I could have righted but would never get the chance to again.

"No one could have loved Kitty Katty Number Two more than you did," Daddy continued on, his breath tinkling through my thin hair into my scalp. "No one would ever be capable of that. Do you want to know why, _querida_? Because they, in turn, would have smothered him with false affection and warmth, seeing only what's on the outside: his fur ball of a body. But you, Kitty? You brought him home when he was gangly and, uh, to coin a phrase, unattractive. You cared for him and gave him all your love the moment he materialized into your life.

"Trust me, he didn't run away because he didn't think you loved him enough. Every living, breathing being has that bottle of curiosity within them. Kiki just wanted adventure… perhaps to find out what it's like outside, when all the world is dark and the stars are twinkling high in the sky. His downfall was that he chose his escapade in a city polluted with transgressions, and people lacking the kindness and compassion that _you_ hold so dear, Kitty."

My hiccups had been diminishing as I listened to my father's explanation. I waited with baited breath as he took a shallow breath and went on.

"It had nothing to do with you." His voice was soft and melodic to my ears. "Besides, we all die eventually… Kiki's time was up in cat years."

Then he gently peeled me off him to look at me in the eye. "Cats have nine lives, Kitty. Kiki isn't going to sleep forever."

My lips started trembling again, in either sorrow or hope.

"Right now. Right now, do you know where Kiki is?" Daddy asked me, still in that peaceful tone that I loved so much.

I shook my head no, my eyes widening. Kiki was buried in our backyard, wasn't him? I hadn't witnessed the burial ceremony myself, since I had cried out in misery and ran back to the house before my mom had even started digging the grave. Once inside, I had bounded up to my room and stayed there the whole day (or until my dad came and got me), crying a river to fill up several tributaries of the Amazon.

"I… don't know…" I said, opening my eyes even wider as I gazed at him. I could only imagine what I must have looked like: a child, staring in fear, wonder, and apprehension as she waited for her father to assure her that everything was going to be all right, that her beloved kitty was going to be in a place where cars couldn't run over it anymore, where drugged up criminals couldn't shoot at it, stab it, force it into tiny transparent bottles anymore.

"Kiki's in kitty heaven now, _querida_," my father told me soothingly, brushing a wayward strand of hair back behind my ear. "He's on the other side of the rainbow, filled with other cats like him who had passed on. Don't worry, he has plenty of food to eat, plenty of toys to play with, plenty of other cat friends and companions to love.

"He's with his long lost mother and brothers and sisters now. He's happy. I see him smiling… oh, and he wants me to give you a message."

Then Daddy whispered the last part in my right ear, as if we were sharing a deep secret just between us, sealing our connection, bounded by blood. "He just wants to tell you that… he loves you.

"Just like your mom and dad, just like everyone else in the world."

Then Daddy lightly kissed my forehead, and I couldn't help the tiny smile that tilted my lips upward.

"Really, Daddy? He really loves me as much as I love him?"

Daddy feigned shock, and then laughingly tousled my hair. He then stood up and I climbed onto his back, awaiting the piggyback ride home.

At that time, it wasn't hard to imagine Kiki actually loved me as much as I did him. After all, my father told me so. But in an objective standpoint, what was the truth? Could he really have? Taken away the extra delicious cat food I'd always brought him, and the numerous toys I'd always made my mother get for him in the store, would he love me just as much?

Would he have cared about me at all? Or was it the materialistic goods he enjoyed, just like everyone else?

"Kitty? Are you okay?"

The voice of Hector jolted me back to the present. I felt that solid stab in my heart as the vivid reminiscence crashed away like the turn of the tide, leaving me stranded on the shore, buried alive.

"Did you know," I turned to him, hand clutching the railing in a deathgrip, eyes flashing involuntarily, "that I haven't come to this place in four years? That I've been _forbidden_ to set foot in here ever again?"

The reaction I was expecting was something along the lines of a confused blink from him, or a look of bewilderment as the stranger in front of me wondered what I was talking about; where the change of mood and tone came from.

But instead, all Hector did was regard me kindly, with serene, black eyes that was unwavering as he held me in all my flushed glory. Then, as if both of us were stuck in between dimensions or times, his sturdy arms entrancingly started toward me, propelling my small and fragile body in close.

_A stranger…_

_An alien… _

_An outsider…_

_A visitor into my own, secluded universe… _

_A feeling, an emotion lathered with familiarity. A reminder of what was once lost and by all means, can never be regained. A tender touch, a simple smile, a grip on my cosmos that promised to stay forever, to never let go._

_A vow that was once broken. _

_A shattered promise that never truly felt abandoned…_

"Can I ask you something?" Hector said as his hand dropped down from my cheek.

"Be my guest," I replied, planting myself on a bench and blinking away unshed tears.

"What did you see?"

After four years of pretending, I didn't feel like it anymore. What was the point in acting as if you were this dim, brainless, naïve little girl who never spoke because no one actually cared about what she had to say; who never asked or begged or pleaded for anything because no one would give her what she actually wanted; who never regarded anyone with anything but a certain blankness and vacantness because no one would want to deal with what could have been there, what those two coins of coffee could have held.

"I saw my father," I said simply. "For the first time since he'd died, _I saw him_. My mother had forbidden me to ever set foot in this park again because it'd hurt _her_ too much. Daddy and I always used to come here. We would do any and everything. The deepest secrets were revealed here. The most embarrassing tales were locked up in this gazebo. The most beautiful views were shared in this heaven without words."

His silence prompted me to go on.

"I fulfilled my mother's wish because she was suffering, seemingly more so than me. She cried day and night, but she'd always sneak off so I wouldn't see her moments of weakness. So she told me one day: 'Katrina, stay away from that place. You'll only regret it. The memories are too painful.'

"Painful for whom, I wondered…"

"So why decide to break your word today?" Hector tilted his head up in a pondering position so I couldn't read his face. "Something special about Christmas Eve?"

"My father and I used to come here this time every year," I said abruptly. "It was a constant. Something I could always count on to happen."

"An unspoken agreement, bounded by your love?"

I flushed at the wording but merely nodded. "Christmas Day was always so crazy. Kids awaiting that one single morning, bounding out of bed at five just to check in their stockings. Their whole family waking up with them. Grandmas baking gingerbread cookies. The soft harmonious melody emitting from the speakers. The sounds of loud Christmas cheers…

"And of course, everyone's home, just as they should be.

"But Christmas Eve was always more special. It was the day that came in second to the Most Important Day of Practically Everyone's Life. And, well," Here I shrugged. "I guess my father and I just always believed it mattered more."

"I understand what you're saying." Hector nodded. "The overlooked always has something more exceptional to offer." He smiled at me again.

"Right…" I fingered the tail of my parka. "And I guess when you asked me where I wanted to go, I just thought, what the heck, my mother doesn't know, I miss my father more than anything else in the world, I want to see the one place that can make me feel like he's here with me, let's just _go._"

What was it about this person? Why did I trust him? Why had I even followed him, or was it I who led him here, not caring that _he_ was following _me_?

Silently, Hector sat down on the bench next to me.

"Once upon a time," I answered before he could even ask the question. "There were people and beings in this world who loved Kitty de Silva. You know, people who cared about her and wanted her to be happy and feel loved above all else. Not to sound like a walking cliché or anything, but yeah, it's true." Insert bitter laugh here. "And guess what, when her father died, that all changed."

Hector drew a sharp intake of breath.

"Her mother was a mess. She tried to make time for her daughter, tried to make sure that she was okay before she worried about herself. It didn't exactly go that way. Susannah de Silva was tough when it came to dealing with businessmen and cocky advertisers and politicians, but she fell apart when it came to facing the loss of someone she genuinely loved. She was too weak to pull herself together, much less heal that daughter along with healing herself.

"Don't worry, though," I said, patting Hector's hand absentmindedly. "She eventually got it together. Though in the process, she pushed everyone else away: Her former best friend who only wanted to help her restore to health; Her parents who thought they could provide a shoulder to cry on; Her previous materialistic loves like shopping and going for weekend spa facials or whatever they were. And she decided to devote herself to the one thing she could built upon, something she could make sure would never stab her in the heart when she wasn't looking, would never betray her and what little fragile spirit she had left."

"Don't tell me," Hector muttered beside me. I felt his presence growing dark, his mood shifting ominously. "She didn't."

"Oh yeah, she did," I said, pseudo brightly. "She totally did. She decided the best course of action was to throw herself into work and manufacture the best darn company she could. To become the best darn businesswoman there ever was, raking in pound after pound of money for her and her lovely daughter to live on.

"And she bought said daughter everything. Clothes, toys, dolls, books, gymnastics lessons, piano lessons, horseback riding lessons, the list is endless. She thought to provide her with all the luxuries, just not one thing. She basically bought her everything except what that daughter wanted the most.

"Mi… Mister," I strangled out, unable to bring myself to call him Hector, and wondering why my throat was so choked up with emotions. "I didn't want that from her. I didn't want all the elaborate and expensive presents she showered me with. I didn't want all the briberies of substance goods that couldn't talk, or smile, or breathe, or _look_ at me and tell me I matter. I had no need for the best designer clothes in the world or the prettiest doll to entice other girls my age with. All this time, all I wanted, was… was… yeah."

I was suddenly overcome with a sensation of tiredness and fatigue. My diarrhea of the mouth had had its beginning, climax, and it needed an ending - _now_, before I spilled my whole world and clandestine stash of private thoughts to a perfect stranger.

"Was what, _querida_?" Hector said softly.

"Nothing."

"It's the holiday season," Hector ventured. "Kids love Christmas."

"They're supposed to, anyway."

"So why don't you?" he rallied.

"Because I want my father here!" I said, frustrated. Wasn't it obvious?

"And what would that actually solve, Kitty?" I was beginning to hate that disturbingly gentle voice of his. It was eerily familiar and engaging and only lured me into risk spilling out my guts and getting close, something I couldn't possibly gamble again.

"You understand this, you do." I stood up and started pacing the perimeter of the gazebo. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Yet for some reason, you just want me to say it."

I whirled around and glared at him.

"Nice defense mechanism, Kitty," Hector said placidly. "But please, drop it. Don't work yourself up in a rage and convince yourself I'm a bad guy. I only want to help you."

"Oh yeah?" I didn't drop the glare, even though it was getting harder and harder to keep it plastered. Any expression would be hard to manage when all I wanted was to sob into someone's shoulder and forget life after my father existed. "Care to tell me what admitting my most innermost thoughts and intentionally placing myself in a naked position would accomplish?"

Hector regarded me with the most sincere look. "It would make you understand what you've never been able to verbalize."

"I'm sorry," I said with forced sarcasm. "But I don't tempt fate."

An eyebrow shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Saying it," I articulated every syllable; " would just make everything more real. Maybe it was all, you know, in my head. Maybe it was the imagination working overtime. Maybe it was all _my_ doing. Maybe I was the one who pushed her away. Maybe I gave some sign that I wanted to be left alone. Maybe all my behavior screamed was _I'm happy, I don't need you_."

"Except you know that's not true." I may have been mistaken, but I think he scoffed, however softly.

"Okay, fine. Here, in plain language. In actual words, spelled out in each and every single letter. My mother. I love her. She gave me everything. Everything, with the exception of her flesh and blood self. She bought me my whole life, when all I wanted was _her_. And something I once had from her. Her love."

A blanket of utter stillness settled around us. I was breathing rapidly, angrily wiping at my eyes every few seconds, hating myself and this stranger who had forced me to finally verbalize what I'd pushed into the back of my head for so freaking long.

When uttered out, it seemed like nothing. Just a few words that explained what so many other kids went through everyday. Did they, like me, ignore it too? Did they simply pretend it doesn't really exist and that they can survive with the customary "Good morning" and "How was school" and "Time for bed" greetings? Did they eventually convince themselves that it's better this way, because it put oneself in no jeopardy to ever get hurt again? That it gives the "cherished" parent no chance to ever go back on a promise or dole out betrayal after betrayal?

Or maybe they spoke up about it. And had their whole world shattered time after time anyway, because parents like those are not capable of staying true to their word. Work always gets in the way - that's the one thing you can honestly count on.

"And when we got here, I had my flashback," I continued on in a ragged voice, wanting to let it all out now, and needing to break the stilted silence; I felt like he was calmly judging me, weighing all my bad attributes in his mind. "In it… I realized something. When I was little, there were people who loved me. My mother. My aunts and uncles. My father. My cat. He - my dad - told me that Kiki loved me. But how could he have known? Kiki could have despised me. He could have hated the way I always cuddled him too lightly or made him eat his dinner or forbade him to go outside.

"Maybe he decided dying was better than staying cooped up in a house with me a second longer."

In a flash, Hector was at my side, smothering my brittle self against him. He was shaking in my arms, I realized dimly.

"Don't you dare say that, _querida_," he whispered hoarsely. "Kiki was so lucky to have you…"

I felt myself tearing up again. "But the - _hic _- point is," I continued with a quivering lip, starting where I'd left off. "I was brought back to a time when I was Kitty de Silva, the person everyone loved. And now, who am I? Katrina de Silva, the fragile little girl who pushed all her friends away and have a mother who's out touch with her daughter's reality?

"I don't want to be that girl…"

Perhaps Hector showed up in my life to solely rescue me from that crazy truck driver. Perhaps he was supposed to be the ghost of Christmas Past or the ghost of Christmas Present or the ghost of Christmas Future for all I know. Perhaps he's supposed to provide the divine guidance I seriously needed.

But I used him for what I lacked then. I used him as a shoulder to cry on.

He didn't pull away. Not that I expected him to anything. Hector had been the nicest person possible, saving me, taking me here, listening to me, just _being_ there and treating me like a real person capable of feeling and understanding what had been snatched away and never again replaced.

He was almost the father figure that had too soon evaporated into thin air.

"My father and I used to come to this exact gazebo, this exact spot every Christmas Eve, just to sit here and talk and look at the view. There's something to be said for all this white," I said after my sobs had subdued somewhat.

I pried myself off him, growing a little embarrassed. As much as he hinted as a trace of my beloved father, he wasn't. He was someone I had just met today, not even hours ago, in fact.

"Come on," I stood up abruptly, not trusting myself to look at him. "Enough memories. I want to go."

Without a word, Hector rose with me. I made myself stare at the bare, naked branches of the trees in front of us, clenching my fists together while painful spasms ran across my heart.

He took my hand. His were gentle, callused, big hands that had probably been used to mold everything, to feel every beat, to heal everything broken.

Too bad he couldn't repair a heart that had been crushed, thrown down, stomped on, pierced through, and locked up before the realization of the nonexistence of any key on Earth.

"Where are we going this time?" I asked after we had walked the walkway path for awhile.

"Where else do you and your father used to go on Christmas Eve?" he asked, a sad, almost mischievous glint in his dark eyes.

"Well… we used to just stroll around downtown and look at everything in the windows." I smiled in remorse. "Although he always had to carry me on his shoulders."

Hector smiled too, one that mirrored mine. His grip on my hand tightened and soon I found ourselves racing from one block to the next, crossing intersection after intersection (after looking at the traffic lights, of course). Suddenly, I could make out the first shop, Glady's Jewelry Cavern, that lined the street, and let out a large laugh that shook my entire body.

My feet picked up its pace even more so.

"Can I ask you something else?" Hector shouted at me through the wind rushing in a current against our faces.

"Sure," I yelled back.

"Why in the world did you risk your life to save a butterfly!"

I laughed again, then sobered up a nanosecond later as I realized I had no idea if Butter had survived.

"I mean," Hector hastened to add after seeing my expression and wanting to propel the topic further, giving me no time to surrender to sorrow. "Why did you care so much about it when you could have known it for only a few minutes?"

We were on our last crossing before Glady's now. I drilled my eyes into the red traffic light staring back at me and dug my right hand deep into the depth of my parka pocket.

"I guess I just wanted to care about _something_," I finally answered as the light turned green and we found our feet on top of those methodic white lines. "Because I know what it feels like to be unloved."

Our clasp tightened even more until I thought my frail fingers were going to break.

An uncontrollable smile broke across my face as I caught sight of all the beautiful stores my father and I had made our mark in and in front of as we gazed into the window displays of absolutely every item and every teensy detail.

"I love this place," I commented as Hector and I stopped outside Glady's to look at the new diamond rings and necklaces and sapphire earrings. "Everything is so beautiful, and everyone is so nice. They never minded me trying on all this jewelry…"

"Want to go in?" Hector asked. I thought I caught a scent of bridled longing in his tone, but then knew I must have conjured it up.

I gave the sparking diamond one last look. "No thanks. Maybe another time. We've a lot of stores to hit…"

I bit my lip and gestured around us. "And in this crowd…"

Hector simply shook his head good-naturedly and smiled.

_This is the part where you can't look at him anymore, because the resemblance is too great. _

_This is the part where your heart is supposed to swell with joy, because finally, after four years, there could be a Christmas Eve that comes from a storybook, like it _had _been_.

_So why does it still hurt so much? Why does it feel like I can't get enough water? Am I drowning? Am I being suffocated? Am I in some nightmare where the setting is perfect, but I still can't get over the fact it's just a _dream?

"Kitty?" I heard a voice calling me, a faraway quality embracing it. "Are you okay?"

_Snap out of it._

"Yes, I'm fine," I heard myself answer, my voice vaporous.

What was going on, I wondered dimly. I saw it. I could feel us continuing to shuffle our feel forwards, I knew Hector was looking at me worriedly. But oh God, we were closing in on Ethereal Promises, a bookstore that I had always stayed in for hours on end when I went there as a kid.

A huge sign outside the door announced the booksigning of Toni Griffin, my favorite chapter-book author.

How did I miss this?

I looked back at Hector - oof, when did he get so close - and smiled involuntarily. He only glanced back, his eyebrows furrowed together as if he were contemplating something.

I reached for the doorhandle. But before I could even work the first muscle to pull, the door swung open and smacked me right in the face.

I, with my hand on the handle, stumbled back and the door inevitably followed, forcing the girl who was leaning on it to be propelled forward in surprise and strike her head on the glass door likewise.

"Eeeeeeek," she let out a shrill scream that lasted far after the initial impact and shock had worn off.

She rubbed her forehead and spun ninety degrees to glare at me.

"Use the door on the right side, lady!" She trilled at me. "Ouch, for a second there, I watched my whole life flash before my eyes!"

_Hector. _I glanced around, flimsily at first, then wildly as I realized he had been swallowed up by the crowd, or had just plain disappeared.

"Really," I said in a monotone, turning back to the girl. "I hope it was interesting."

She blinked at me as she continued to stand there, rubbing an invisible bump on her head. Slowly, realization dawned in those green eyes.

"Kitty? Kitty de Silva?"

"You know another Kitty?" I said lightly, trying to smile at Evelyn Amos. Former best friend, perpetual drama queen.

_Hector had to be here somewhere. Maybe he went into the bookstore. _

Either way, for some unknown reason, I wasn't too worried. What was left of my heart told me he wasn't gone forever.

"Haha, no." Evelyn was talking. Replying. "Sorry, it just didn't register for a minute there. God, I haven't seen you in such a long time."

"Can't argue with that," I responded with a strained curl of the lips.

Her eyes spelled out the obvious: **and whose fault is that? **

One thing I most definitely did not miss about her was that she was so self-centered.

"Well, Moira and I were just shopping," Evelyn said after an awkward moment of silence, indicating the girl behind her. Moira Henry. The spirited cheerleader Ev had run to a year ago when I decided clearing away all my schedule to catalogue all possible times for my mother would somehow make her keep at least _one_ or _two_ of her promises.

No such luck. And all I got in return was Evelyn's distrust and hurt and a failed friendship that there was really no point in fixing.

"That's nice," I said.

"Well…" She was uncomfortable. Then she brightened as she looked behind her and just like that, a lightbulb ignited over her head.

"You like Toni Griffin, right?" She said brightly, reaching into one of the many bags she was carrying. "Here, take this."

She held out a copy - autographed, no doubt - of Toni Griffin's The Strange and the Beautiful to me, the cover shining new. But the girl on it was the same. She was still alone, she was lonely.

"I was going to give it to my cousin as a Christmas present," I heard Evelyn babble. "But she would probably just admire the cover calligraphy and then stock it on the shelf next to the other gazillion books she hasn't read anyway. You should take it. At least I'll know then the hour I used standing in line wasn't a total waste down the drain."

I stared at the book like it was a leech, just waiting to launch itself onto my arm and start sucking my blood.

Evelyn still stood there, holding out the book to me. Her arm started to wobble a bit. Moira, standing behind her, simply stared at me.

"No thanks," I told the girl who used to refuse to take "no" for an answer.

"Why not?" Evelyn persisted, breaking into a grin that masked her fear. "Come on, Kitty. You love this book. You did about five book reports on it. You recited everything from it when we used to play together…"

"That was then, this is now, Ev," I said as politely as I could. I made sure to make my expression blank, my face shadowed and closed off. "Toni Griffin is so boring. Have you read anything by John Grisham? Now, that's what I call literature."

She stared at me. A stare full of incredulous disbelief. A stare that kinda sorta saw my defense mechanism, but didn't really let herself discern it. A stare that evidently screamed: _You're eight. You're supposed to be reading Judy Blume. Why the heck are you doing THIS?_

"Well," she finally said as I refused to open my mouth again. "Do you want to come shopping with us? We've some more stores to hit."

Moira tried to tug at her hand surreptitiously, but it wasn't a movement that my keen eye missed.

"No thanks," I stated blandly.

"Please?" Evelyn asked, ignoring Moira.

"No, I'm rather busy." My voice, nor my face, betrayed any emotions.

"Are you sure?" Was she begging? My brain felt closed off. My head felt dazed. I couldn't operate enough of my senses.

"Yes, Evelyn. I'm fine here, thanks." There. That was firm.

And probably a bit harsh, judging by the curtain of hurt that fell across her face.

"Bye, Evelyn," I forced myself to say in that same civil voice.

"Bye, Kitty. Merry Christmas tomorrow." Then she brushed past me curtly, Moira following her, but only after shooting me a dirty look.

It wasn't until they had at least gotten to the entrance of another store, stopping to chat with someone else from school probably, that I felt his presence next to me again.

"You should have taken the book."

I didn't answer, instead focusing my gaze on Evelyn as she tried to appear cheerful while carrying on a heated conversation. She glanced back once or twice to check if I was watching. I was, and matched her look head on.

"After four years of never seeing or hearing from him again, I think I can finally say that now, on a really, really special day, someone reminded me of the spirit of him again."

That caught him off guard, all right. The change of the topic, and the content of the confession. The utterance of that personal thought even caught me by so much surprise that my breath was dingily shallow afterwards.

"You're mostly what I imagined what my father would be like if he had lived. How he would behave with an eight-year-old daughter."

Hector stayed silent, probably because his breath was caught in his throat, much like mine was.

"He would show me love and care about me. He would prove it to me that I'm not unlovable, that I haven't become that way. That I'm capable of being tender, or being understanding, of being cared for, of being loved. That I'm worthwhile of the greatest gift someone could give to another. That I'm not so cold that I could push away the one person who didn't desert me after I gave all signs of wanting to abandon her."

The tears were falling so freely now, their reigns having being released, the latch to the gate having being opened. I must have been a sight, standing there on the uncovered street, silently crying my eyes out over something that could only be felt, not seen. And oh boy, did that feeling ripple itself into the deepest layer of my inner core and threaten to destroy every fiber of my being, to drink and leech up every remaining blood drop of my heart.

"Thank you for that comment, _querida_," Hector said quietly. "But as for the latter, it's still not too late. Please, if I remind you of your father so, do me one favor. Go after her. Accept that book. It'll mean to her more than you'll ever know."

I gave a delirious snorting laugh and shook my head crazily. "I think I do know."

But I did run. And didn't stop until Evelyn's surprised - but hopeful - face was the only thing in my sight.

XXX

It was nearing dusk when I realized Hector and I had sat on the same park bench for hours upon hours, simply talking. It felt good to let out all my pent-up frustrations and anger. Maybe he was just a random standby, a stranger who'd rescued me from an oncoming truck, an alien that lingered with all the familiars of my father. But he had found me for a reason. He had picked me out, out of all the girls out there throwing themselves at cars to chase a butterfly, to spend a whole day with me and listen to me rant about everything possible.

"It's just not fair," I sniffled, feeling my lips quiver again. "I deserve the normal life. The carefree, ordinary, run-of-the-mill family life everyone else has. Fine, so I had to lose my dad. But was it fair for fate to take away my mother from me in the process too? Is there any justice in this world?"

The tears just kept falling and falling, and Hector's strong arms stayed around my shoulders the whole time.

"Other people doesn't appreciate it enough to deserve it," I went on, letting out a hiccup. "They take everything for granted and have their whole life in perfect order just because to the outside world, they seem like angels lining up along the sparking pearly gate. I hate this whole screwed-up ordeal. Girls like Moira Henry win the awards for Best Family Situation. But she doesn't deserve it. She can't possibly want it as much as I do."

It was back to the shoulders of Hector for me.

"This is just so UNFAIR." I beat at something invisible over the bench that goaded me. "I want a mom who cares. I want a mom who bakes cookies and sings along when I hum and dance with me when I'm in the mood. I want a mom who Susannah de Silva used to be before her husband died. I want a mom who used to know what was best for me."

I didn't need a response. I just wanted to stay in the crook of that shoulder forever, crying until I had no tears left, talking until I had no more painful words in me to utter, hoping against all hope, all odds, until time stopped and my world entered an alternate universe and eventually returned to "normal."

"Have you ever tried telling her?" His voice was so quiet, it took me a second to realize he had even said anything. "Have you tried to let her know how you feel?

"Ever?"

"I would think all the times I had blown off previous plans to hang out with her would have been obvious. And all those times I had gotten so excited she was scheduling me in. Of course, in the end, something 'more important' had always come up, so whatever."

I made my tone careless, as if Mother Dearest could break her thousandth promise to me and I wouldn't bat an eyelash when in reality, I would probably bat my whole loop of eyelashes off if I didn't receive a life-saving signal from her soon.

"Talk to her, _querida…_"

"She takes me for granted as a non-entity, Hector…"

_"She does not, you just need to let her know how much it hurts you…"_

_"I don't really exist in her eyes…"_

_"You do, just make her acknowledge your world…"_

_"She doesn't know I have feelings…" _

_"The pain and grief in your eyes speak louder than anything you'll ever be able to convince yourself…" _

"What should I do, Hector!" I wasn't delirious. I wasn't sick. I was normal. Perfectly normal.

"TELL her, _querida_," he said fervently. "Confront her."

I let out a frustrated groan and buried myself deeper into him.

"She wouldn't listen."

"What you need is the courage to do the one thing that can mean the start of a renewed relationship."

"Right."

"You reconciled with Evelyn. Somewhat."

"That's different. Evelyn never stopped wondering if I was okay."

"Neither did your mother. But you just gave off every sign of being fine, and in her state, she can't exactly tell the truths from the carefully masked lies."

"Speak from your heart, Kitty. Describe to her what and how you feel. Why would that be so hard?"

_Because I was scared of her reaction. _

_She probably wouldn't even take me seriously. _

_She probably would think it's just a phase. _

_She probably would just brush it off because she doesn't want to deal with it. And then get back on the phone. Get back to work. Numbers and a bunch of incoherent words voiced in the name of businesses are always easier, aren't they?_

"Kitty, please." He wasn't going to plead with me and appeal to the only soft side I had left. He _wouldn't_. "Don't judge before opening the book. Don't decide before you see the whole image and truth. You don't have precognition; you don't know what the future holds."

I looked at him, then glanced away.

I had just remembered the reason I tried to never look into people's eyes. I never know what to do with what I see there.

"I have to go home," I said loudly. Bluntly. I pulled away from Hector and stood up. There was no moment for hesitation. With the moonlight and minuscule bulbs of the streetlights guiding me, I made my way to the block, Hector following several steps behind me the whole time.

I entered our neighborhood and deliberately paced myself to my house. I could still hear him. Good.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch. Step, step, step._

Until…

A familiar awning loomed over my head. A familiar, wooden door painted in forest green bore its center straight into mine. A familiar doorbell, enveloped in the soft, orange light, lay there, awaiting the press.

"Please, Katrina," Hector began. He had such an earnest voice. "We're all vouching for you…"

Is this really goodbye?

Before I could indicate for him to continue, before I could blink away the tears that had pooled around my eyes, the door flew open, the light from inside blinding me temporarily.

"Where in the world have you been!" I heard the angry voice of my mother directed toward my ears. I stared at her, her beautiful face donning that furious expression, one so unlike any I had ever before witnessed, clouding her face. Her eyes were sunken with worry, her lips pressed thin from anxiety. The crevices in her forehead further added to the evidence of Susannah de Silva's previous anguish.

"Wa… What?" I said, dazed and rather shocked as I stood on the porch step, blinking at this unaccustomed image of my mother.

"You told me you were going to be at Evelyn's! So I called her house this afternoon, because I just remembered we originally had plans to go to Toni Griffin's book signing. You really liked her. I didn't think you would want to miss it. But when I called Paula, what did I get? Her telling me that she hadn't seen you all day! Apparently Evelyn had been out shopping with some other girl. You never planned to go to her house."

She gave me an accusatory glare.

But oh no, she doesn't get to do this._ She doesn't get to care after four years of shutting me out of her life. She doesn't get to talk my ears off after never muttering more than three sentences to me a day. She doesn't get to yell at me for lying to her after weekend after weekend of breaking off our plans. She doesn't get to do _this

Yet… yet…

Never mind that my mother had gotten the time of the actual signing wrong. She _remembered_, possibly for the first time in months, and didn't have another unexpected appointment to make her drop everything else.

That had to count for something, didn't it?

In that moment, as I stood there, looking up at my mother, forcing myself to place myself in those glistening emerald eyes, I was overcome with the strangest, and strongest sensation ever felt.

After one look to disregard her wringing of her poor hands in worry, I burst into irrevocable tears and threw myself in my mother's arms.

She stilled, but after the shock wore off, she patted my back hesitantly. A hug, an embrace, hadn't been shared between us for so long that it was foreign how it felt.

"I… I thought we might go shopping this afternoon," she whispered uncertainly, no doubt wondering what had caused my outer ice demeanor to melt, and where things stood between us now. "I thought you might have wanted to buy something special for Christmas. I… I saw this really pretty doll that just came in at Faithful's. Maybe we can go look at it tomorrow and you can pick out the color you want…"

"Oh, Mom," I sobbed into her shirt, laughing uncontrollably at the same time. "Don't you get it? I don't care about Barbies or clothes or pretty nails. I don't want to learn to do the perfect backflip and be the envy of all the other girls."

I pried myself off of her arms and looked over my shoulder. He was gone, but he had left me his calming presence.

"Mom," I took a deep breath, then steeled myself upright and look right into those eyes, in all likelihood the first thing my father had fallen in love with. "Please, stop showering me with things that you and I both know don't really matter. I don't want another materialistic set of DVDs for Christmas.

"All I want for Christmas is _you_."

XXX

The next morning when I woke up to the cheerful, happy trills of the mockingbirds outside, I could smell the gingerbread cookies deliciously baking in the oven. As I tiptoed off my bed, I could make out the faintest melody from our old record player, playing the romantic tones my father had always loved, the songs my mother had always taken great joy to waltzing to.

I smiled involuntarily and started to get dressed.

As I made my way to the closet, I tripped over my swivel chair and my balance was thrown to the desk. My palms struck out to steady myself.

My eyes were met with a gold locket sitting on the table.

I had never seen it before, so it couldn't have been the result of my carelessness when putting away jewelry. Something so pretty, so intricate, I would have kept close to my heart.

Elaborate designs, hearts, and swans were etched on the locket, enticing every part of me susceptible.

_It must be a present from Santa._

I smiled, and wasted no time in flipping it open. Inside, grinning back at me, was the picture of a happy, smiling family of three. The dad, tall and strong-looking with ebony hair and matching black eyes. The mom, soft chestnut curls with eyes greener than emerald. And the daughter, around four or so, smiling into the camera with an insouciant grin, her eyes full of laughter and cheer. It was the face of someone who was capable of believing, of being optimistic, of holding out her heart to hope. It was the reflection of a girl capable of falling, of rising, of growing, of maturing. And throughout it all, she could cry and smile and laugh, because after darkness had passed, dawn had returned to her and she had never again been baited to set it free or dared to let it go.

XXX

A/N – Review, and I'll give you a cookie.


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